The Left Series (Book 3): Left On The Brink Page 8

  I lit two more smokes and handed one to Smith. He gave me a worried look as he took the cigarette. Smith wasn’t rattled very often but I could see he was feeling the pressure. I didn’t think he was very keen to travel in the aircraft when we’d first talked about it but I knew he wanted to go now. He’d consider the situation an epic failure if we missed that plane. Smith played every scenario like we were on some kind of military, Special Ops mission where ‘failure was not an option.’

  The Mustang juddered as we drove by the busted pick-up truck for the second time. The vehicle’s interior light still dimly shone over the grisly scene inside the cab. Several more zombies had joined the throng already gnawing on what was left of the poor couple’s earthly remains. The gore spattered, undead congregation turned their hideous faces towards us but didn’t attempt to give chase. They were too busy fighting over fresh meat to show us too much concern. The girls in the backseat gave a little whimper and made a few comments to each other in their strange, native tongue.

  “How’s it looking?” I asked Smith. I thought I’d better say something to keep ourselves alert.

  “The temperature is still high but it has gone down a little. The engine don’t seem to be steaming no more, which is a good sign, I suppose. The water pump won’t last much longer and I’m sure we’re losing oil.”

  Smith may as well have been talking in Chinese. “Is that bad?”

  He flashed me his incredulous, sideways stare again. “What do you think, numb nuts?”

  I had a habit of asking daft questions so I tried to change the subject.

  “You ever been to Canada before?”

  Smith nodded. “Uhuh, I’ll tell you all about it once we’re safely on that plane.”

  I shut up as I knew Smith didn’t need or want the distraction of my lame attempts at conversation. He needed total concentration to get us where we wanted to be. I gazed out of my side window and watched the landscape pass by. A red fox with glowing green eyes peered at me through a clump of long grass on the roadside. I wondered how that little critter was faring through all the madness going on around him. Probably, the wildlife throughout the world was now flourishing with the demise of the human race.

  The sun threatened to break over the horizon as we turned left onto the side road towards the airbase. Smith killed the one remaining headlamp and navigated our route in the twilight.

  “We don’t want to give those bastards hanging around the gate any encouragement to come after us,” he growled. “We’re nearly there.”

  The crowd of shuffling corpses honed into view as we neared the security canopy, as though they had been waiting for us. This was the part of the return journey I was dreading most. We’d chosen badly on our mode of transport and I hoped we weren’t going to pay a heavy price for our mistake.

  “We should have used a fucking tank,” I sighed, drawing my M-9 and sliding down my seat.

  Smith chuckled. “This is an airbase, kid not an artillery depot.”

  I didn’t know if they housed tanks in the base or not and I didn’t care. All I wanted to do was get onboard that damn plane.

  “You should probably duck down, girls,” I said, twisting my head towards the rear seats. “The less of us they see, they may not be in such frenzy.” Landri and Mignon gazed at me with blank expressions. I waved my arm in a downward motion, hoping they’d catch my drift. Their faces turned to a look of horror but they seemed to understand and complied with my command.

  The sea of rotting, gruesome faces outside the car looked even more horrific in the looming semi daylight. They approached the Mustang, snarling and shrieking in bloodlust. Spot growled and barked at the back window as the ghouls closed in. Smith put his foot down on the gas and expertly weaved us around the immobile vehicles and concrete traffic calmers. One more prang or collision with a zombie would surely have killed the engine for good. Smith did his best to bump the side wings into the zombies in the center of the lane so we had some kind of clear path. We heard the nauseating scrapes of fingernails raking the roof and sides as we kept going through the undead throng. I waved my M-9 at them, vainly hoping they’d back off at the sight of a loaded weapon. You tend to try anything in a dangerous situation, no matter how futile. I also realized I was whimpering like a scolded child and tried to gulp away the overwhelming sense of fear. If ever there was a cure for tiredness, being within a few inches of hungry flesh eaters was surely the best remedy, but the least recommended.

  We felt the car rock from side to side but Smith kept plowing his way through. I couldn’t hear the engine above the moans and roars coming from outside. The Mustang pulled away from the densest section of the undead rabble. Smith flung a right turn onto the scenic route that ringed around the base perimeter. Most of the mass of undead followed but began to fall behind. I blew out a relieved sigh and let my head flop back against the back of the seat.

  “Got another smoke, Wilde?”

  I nodded and lit two more cigarettes. I handed one over to Smith and was a little shocked to see his usual, casual demeanor had been replaced by a look of total exhaustion. His face was a pale mask of haunted fatigue. Dark rings surrounded his eyes and beads of sweat bubbled on his forehead.

  “You okay?”

  Smith nodded. “We still aren’t there yet, Wilde Man, so don’t open the champagne just yet.”

  I could have killed for a glass of chilled champagne or a cold beer or even a cup of water would have sufficed.

  “Ah, shit! I forgot the bourbon,” I moaned, suddenly remembering the bottle we left on the boat.

  “It’s not the end of the world, kid,” Smith sighed. “Plenty of whisky to drink where we’re headed.”

  We approached the scene of the earlier collision and I just hoped we wouldn’t have a re-run of the previous encounter. I glanced at the clock on the dash. 05:53, the sun was almost above the horizon. I silently prayed the crowd of zombies who had caused us to take evasive action on the way out of the base had dispersed. One more hurdle to overcome and seven minutes to complete it.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The early morning sun shone a red glow through the pine trees that we’d earlier crashed into. Several dead zombies lay amongst the long grass between the trunks but more active creatures still lurked around the road side. The fact that they weren’t in one huge pack worked in our favor. Some tried to head onto the road but were hampered by the dew wet grass. Smith nudged one or two zombies out of our way, slowing the car and tipping them over onto their asses before they had time to launch an all out assault.

  We rounded the bend in the road and took the right fork towards the airfield. The clock showed 05:56. I hoped the flight crew hadn’t decided to make an even earlier start. The Mustang choked and spluttered, slowed but still kept going.

  “Come on, baby. Not far now,” Smith said softly, patting the steering wheel. His voice was croaky and he sounded weary.

  We drove by another cluster of trees and the vast, concrete runway became visible. I cheered and punched the roof upholstery when the welcome sight of the huge C-17, sitting in its same position flashed before my eyes.

  “We’ve done it, Smith! We’re home and dry,” I yelled, slapping his shoulder. I turned to Landri and Mignon, pointing to the plane. “This is it,” I shrieked.

  The girls sat upright with eyes wide in wonderment. I guessed they’d never seen a military aircraft of that size before. Spot sat between them on the back seat. He yawned and yelped, shivering slightly, probably sensing my excitement.

  We opened the windows slightly and flicked out our cigarette butts. Smith headed straight for the plane. All four jet engines, two under each wing, were fired up and glowing orange. We heard the roar of the powerful motors above the crunching of the rapidly dwindling Mustang. The aircraft’s tail ramp still hung open and we recognized the imposing figure of Chief Cole standing at the foot of the incline. He furiously waved us forward then pointed to his right wrist, indicating we were quickly running out of time. I
noticed several zombies meandering around the outskirts of the airstrip, stumbling towards the huge plane.

  Smith pulled the Mustang over next to some upturned dumpsters at the edge of the runway. He didn’t even bother to cut the engine. The car would run until the engine finally packed up, which probably wouldn’t be too much longer. I opened my door and scooped up the day sack before wrenching the upright down to let the girls out of the back. Mignon clutched Spot tightly to her chest as she bundled out of the vehicle. Smith yanked on the trunk release catch and we both darted around the car to retrieve the ammo box.

  “Go, go,” I screamed at Landri and Mignon, pointing to the plane. “Get onboard, now!” We faced the right side of the C-17 and I heard the engines whine higher as though it was ready to start its run up before takeoff.

  Landri and Mignon gave me a confused stare then ran towards Chief Cole who yelled something inaudible at us. Smith and I lifted the ammo box from the trunk and half ran and half stumbled towards the C-17. The box was so damn heavy and I was sick of lugging the damn thing around. My back ached and the metal handle painfully dug into the flesh on the underside of my knuckles.

  The breeze generated by the massive engines blew hard into our faces. I looked towards the ramp and saw Chief Cole literally shove the girls up the ramp. He seemed incensed as he madly waved us forward.

  We reached the foot of the ramp and began to stagger up the steep incline. I winced against the pain the heavy box was generating through my body.

  “Come on, guys. Hurry it up, will you,” Cole yelled above the roar of the engine. “The flight crew wanted to leave ten minutes ago but I made them hang on for you. Another minute and we’d have gone. You got lucky!”

  Smith and I reached the ramp’s summit and we stumbled inside the aircraft’s interior. Cole followed us up the ramp and hit a button beside the doorway. The ramp lifted from the concrete and began to close. We dumped down the box a few yards from the entrance and slumped down, sitting on top of it. We’d made it but I needed a few moments to recover before I could rejoice in our escape from the zombie infested area.

  Batfish bounded over to us and gave Smith and me a big hug. “I didn’t think you were going to get here on time,” she squawked. “What the hell happened and what’s that powder all over you?” She handed us a bottle of water each and we glugged down the contents in a few seconds.

  “We crashed the fucking car, the airbags went off and we generally had a nightmare time getting to the boat and back,” I sighed, wiping water drips from my chin. “You could say we’ve literally been to hell and back.”

  “Well, I told you that Mustang wasn’t the most practical vehicle to take, but you two knew best, didn’t you?” Batfish scolded, taking Spot from Mignon. “They’re both silly boys, aren’t they?” She spoke in a child like voice, leaning her face close to Spot. The small dog licked her face in agreement.

  “No sympathy then,” I muttered.

  I glanced back at the ramp to see it engage into its housing and clunk into place. Goodbye Louisiana, goodbye America. I briefly wondered if I’d ever see the country again. Chief Cole hit an intercom button next to the ramp movement control box. He spoke into the intercom with his back to us so I didn’t catch what he was saying. Presumably, he was talking to the flight crew to inform them we were onboard, the ramp was closed and we were ready for takeoff.

  I gazed around the plane’s interior, which was a long, slightly concaved, white wall paneled compartment, running close to one hundred feet in length, around twenty feet wide and twelve feet high. It wasn’t decked out like a conventional passenger aircraft and didn’t have any windows along the outer walls. The floor was a solid metal grid, packed with pallets of stores in front of the reinforced Humvee and a light green four-wheel drive jeep, all running vertically in a neat line through the center of the compartment. Individually spaced seats ran alongside the interior walls, which were packed with service personnel from various military branches. I saw from the military logos on their chests that some were Marines and others wore Army, Navy, Air Force and Coast Guard insignia. A mish-mash of all the armed forces, who still held allegiance to their respected divisions. A few people were dressed in civilian attire but still had the look and demeanor of military personnel. I recognized Milner sitting next to and talking with the guys who’d picked us up earlier.

  Chief Cole approached us from the sealed ramp with an expression of edginess on his face. “You guys better take a seat.” He ushered us to the chairs along the interior’s sides. “We’ll be lifting off shortly.” He breathed out a relieved sigh and cracked a half grin. “I’m genuinely glad you guys made it back safely.”

  Smith held out his hand and Cole took it, assuming Smith proffered a thankful shake. Instead, the big guy levered himself from his sitting position on top of the ammo box and stood to face Cole.

  “Thanks for waiting for us, Chief,” Smith sighed. “It’s much appreciated.”

  Cole slapped Smith on the shoulder then offered a hand to haul me up as well. I took him up on his helping hand and felt my back, arms and thighs ache as I rose.

  “I better put this thing away,” Smith rumbled, slipping the M-9 from the back of his waistband. “Damn thing was sticking up my ass anyway.”

  I remembered my own weapon and drew it. Chief Cole raised an eyebrow in alarm when he saw we carried loaded weapons onboard.

  “Don’t worry, Chief,” Smith sighed, taking the handgun from me. He ejected the magazines and the rounds in the chambers and showed Cole the empty breaches. Then he placed the weapons and magazines into the ammo box.

  Smith gave Batfish an accusing stare and held out his hand. “Your weapon?”

  “Oh…it’s okay. My gun has already been made safe by the Chief, here.” She smiled at Cole. “He’s keeping hold of it for me.”

  Cole nodded towards the ammo box. “We better get that thing secured before we take off.” He looped a strap through an eyebolt on the deck and through the box’s handles so the strap ran over the flat container’s top.

  “Okay, let’s take a seat,” Cole said.

  He led us to a row of five empty chairs facing the front of the aircraft, positioned in front of the stores pallets at the opposite end of the compartment. The seats were hidden from our view when we first boarded and we were nearer the front of the plane. Cole sat down amongst an unoccupied row of seats behind us.

  We slumped into the chairs and buckled up the seat belts. Batfish tucked Spot into the space between me and her, ensuring she wrapped her belt across his belly. I ruffled his head and he looked at me with a hint of excitement and confusion in his brown eyes. I’d rescued him from a car wreck when we left Brynston on our way to New York. The poor little fellow had endured his ups and downs, losing his first family somewhere in that Interstate smash up, then seeing our other dog called Sherman, mercilessly slaughtered by Batfish’s kidnappers.

  The plane jolted as we began to move. I felt a spinning sensation as the aircraft turned around. My stomach performed a summersault when the C-17 accelerated forward at an incredible speed. Within the space of a minute, I felt my body slump and lurch and my hearing diminished. We were in the air, on our way to Halifax, Canada.

  I let my head slump back against the soft cushioning of the seat and listened to the drone of the revving aircraft engines. The sound was somehow stimulating, like a welcome noise of victory. We’d finally made it. I closed my eyes and let the drowsiness of slumber wash over me. I felt as though I could sleep for a thousand years.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I dreamed of my mother in London. She was a striking woman, with pale skin, jet black hair and lively green eyes that didn’t miss a trick. Eileen Noonan lived in Galway, Ireland until she met my dad, Michael Wilde. Dad had wanted to visit the place where his ancestors originated from in the old country, before they immigrated to the States, sometime in the early 1800’s. Michael Wilde and Eileen Noonan had quickly fallen in love and stayed in Galway for a while, Dad work
ed for local building companies as a laborer until he was fired several times. They married and moved to Finsbury Park in north London, with Dad having aspirations to be a diamond merchant.

  My sister, Vicky and I were born two years apart when my parents lived in the English capital. I was the younger sibling. The marriage was strained; I guess a lot of it had to do with lack of money and my Dad’s wayward shenanigans. Sometimes he was flush following the result of a good transaction, but he’d quickly blow the cash and we’d be struggling again. Eight years later, my parents decided to make a clean break and move to the States. Why they chose a crappy little Pennsylvanian town called Brynston remained a mystery.

  My first days in school in Brynston were somewhat confusing. The other kids laughed at my accent and wanted to know why I ‘talked all funny.’ I was in my last year at Brynston High School when my mother dropped the bombshell and said she was moving back to Ireland. Vicky had already moved out and was a student at San Francisco University. Dad moved to New York, Mum didn’t stay in Ireland, she moved back to London to an area in the north-west of the city called Kilburn. I stayed put and wasted my life in Brynston for some bizarre, unknown reason.

  I’d visited my mother, Eileen a few times in London, the last time being a year ago with Samantha, my on/off girlfriend of the time.

  I hadn’t had any contact with my family since the undead apocalypse, apart from seeing my Dad in zombie form on a yacht in Manhattan. I’d shot him in the head. A fact that haunted me ever since.

  The weather was sunny in my dream. It must have been summertime and I somehow knew we were in London. The light seemed dimmer than in the States and I vaguely recognized the small garden of the little semi-detached house. My mother was standing in the kitchen looking through an open window and watching me and my sister play in the garden. The small backyard was half grass and half moss stained concrete and a narrow gate at the far end led to an alleyway. The back door hung open and smells of cooking wafted outside. We were all younger, my sister and I were kids. Vicky wore a red and white tartan dress and wore her black hair tied back in a pony-tail. I was dressed in navy shorts and a white T-shirt with a picture of ‘Bart Simpson’ pulling down his shorts on the front. My dad always found that shirt amusing. Vicky held a Barbie doll and I pretended to shoot her toy with my Action Man figure.