The Left Series (Book 1): Leftovers (32 page)

“Long messy story,” Eazy muttered. “Here you go, Rosenberg, here’s your precious fucking gas can. Now let’s go to fucking Manhattan and get on that fucking boat.” He tossed the can inside the RV interior and jumped in the passenger seat.

I smiled at Julia before stripping off my wet clothes.

“Are you okay, Brett?” her voice full of concern.

“Never better,” I said.

She looked at me as if I’d crash landed on a UFO in Area 51. I changed into a sweat shirt and jogging pants, my last change of clean clothes I carried in my bag.

Batfish cranked up the RV and swung around in the middle of the road, ready to take us back onto the Interstate. Eazy sauntered back into the living area with a pissed off look on his face.

“Are there any spare, clean clothes I can wear?” he asked. “My best attire seems to be ruined.” He gave me a harsh look, like it was my fault.

“There’s some clean clothes in the closets,” Rosenberg said, pointing to the wardrobes.

Eazy moved over to the cupboards and looked inside.

“Ah, man! Do I look like some old, white dude about to croak?” he said, studying the wardrobe. “This guy had to have an XXXL waist at least.”

“Tell me about it,” Smith croaked from his bed. “Look at these pants. Bob Hope wore these on the golf course.” He pointed to a pair of brown and green checked pants he had on with a belt tightening the waist and the bottoms flapping around his shins.

“We’re all going to be naked before we get to that boat,” Eazy sighed. “Can we stop off somewhere and get some new rags?” he shouted through to Batfish in the cab.

“Can’t you wait till we get to Battery Park?” she shouted back.

Eazy stalked through the back of the RV into the cab. I knew he liked his clothes and his image. He didn’t like being wet, cold and nearly naked in front of other people. A rumble of voices went on in the cab that we couldn’t hear.

Eazy came back into the living area. “We all need some new clothes so we’re going to stop when we can, before the Holland Tunnel” he said to us all with no emotion.

“Good call,” Smith said, rising from his bunk. “I could do with a sharp new suit.”

I sighed and held my head in my hands. We were about to embark on another unnecessary stop on an already flawed journey.

Chapter Fifty

Batfish drove the RV back to the Interstate 78, following the route we had previously taken. We sat in silence watching the world go by through the side windows as we headed further into the denser area of Jersey City. Rosenberg sat up front in the cab, alongside Batfish. We headed north on the Interstate towards the Holland Tunnel, an underground roadway that passed under the Hudson River into the heart of Manhattan.

Batfish slowed and pulled the RV off the I-78, somewhere near the Historic Downtown area, after around a mile. I’d give Eazy nine out of ten for the “shit idea of the week” award. I knew he needed clothes but surely any old rags would do for the moment. I hoped he wasn’t thinking of dragging us around endless zombie infested streets searching for his favorite clothing brand. He’d told Soames about the plan before we got back on the Interstate. Soames not surprisingly wasn’t happy with the situation but agreed to follow.

We turned east on Christopher Columbus Drive on a six lane. The road ran straight down to the harbor, Eazy told us. The streets were quiet with clusters of zombies milling around outside the four storey brownstone buildings. Not as many dead as I’d expected. Abandoned cars lay at odd angles in the road and Batfish drove slowly around them. Dreary, run down, one storey shops and stores with metal shutters pulled down over the doors and windows lined the streets.

“Holler if you see a gun store,” Smith said. “We could do with rearming ourselves.”

“Over there, look,” Eazy said, pointing out the window. “A sports store, that’ll do.” He moved to the cab to tell Batfish to pull over.

“Ah, Christ,” Smith sighed. “I wanted to find an up market store to get a decent suit.”

“I don’t think you’ll find any of them around these parts,” Eazy smirked. “You all can come with me if you want to but I’m going to be in and out of that store as quick as a fat man eats a burger. I need some clothes and maybe a spare pair. I mean, look at me.”

I had to admit he did look ridiculous. He wore a gray tee shirt at least three sizes too big, a pair of baggy shorts with a belt tightened to the last notch and a pair of carpet slippers. The previous owners of the RV had obviously been on the weighty side. Julia had shoved Eazy’s and my wet clothes in a laundry bag and left them in the bathroom.

Batfish bumped the front wheel up the curb and drove onto the sidewalk as close as she could get to the sports store front.

“How are you going to get in?” I asked.

“Through the front door, I’ve got the key right here,” Eazy said, holding the baseball bat.

“Wait,” I hissed, “What if the alarm goes off and the zombies from several blocks away hear it?”

“Like I said, I’m going to be in and out real quick.”

“Hey, you better pick me up some gear. Get XL size.” Smith said, shuffling to a chair in the living area. “I can’t move around too quickly yet.” He winced with the effort of sitting down. Julia handed him a cup of coffee.

“I’ll come with you, Eazy,” I said. “I’m down to my last set of clothes.” I looked at the jog pants I had on with several holes in the legs. Normally, I reserved what I was wearing for rare DIY and sports activities.

“Me too,” said Rosenberg. “This is the only set of clothes I have. The rest of my gear got trashed back in Brynston.”

“Okay,” Eazy said. “We better take one gun with us and we’ll leave one here with you, Smith.”

Smith nodded. “I can still use a weapon if I have to,” he said.

“If you get into any real trouble give us two honks on the horn, Batfish,” Eazy called into the cab.

“Two honks, I got it,” Batfish confirmed. “I’m going to leave the engine running but make sure you guys are real quick, okay?” She moved into view in the cab doorway. “I don’t want to be hanging around here with my ass hanging out if the shit hits the fan.”

I glanced out the side window and noticed we were already attracting the attention of a few street walking zombies. They shuffled towards the RV, hands outstretched, mouths hanging open like they were salivating at the thought of sinking their teeth into our flesh.

“Okay, can we get on with it?” I hissed. “A few of them are already on the way over here.”

Eazy looked out of the windows. Soames had pulled up his Lexus on the curb side behind us.

“Right, let’s roll,” he said, sliding open the door.

Rosenberg and I followed Eazy out of the RV. Eazy checked the sports store door that was predictably locked. It wasn’t a high end chain store, only an independent outlet offering specialized stock. High end stores presented safety glass fronted windows and sophisticated security systems. Low end, non high street locations tended to rely on locks, bolts, chains and a lot of hope in the possibility they wouldn’t be robbed. I dealt with numerous insurance claims from similar small store owners when they were robbed or vandalized in my previous and probably last employment. I asked the same monotonous questions; have you reported the break in? Did you have locks and alarms fitted?

All questions and insurance claims for break-ins were now null and void.

Eazy took a back swing the bat at the unguarded sport store window.

“Hang on, Eazy,” I said. “Why don’t we try around the back and see if there’s a door we can kick in?” I looked around at the approaching zombies. “It might be better to get in and out undetected. The noise of breaking glass will only attract more dead people.”

“Okay,” he whispered. We trudged around the side of the building looking for an entrance.

We followed the red brick wall around the back of the building. The store backyard had a rickety, rusty chain link fence that we pulled down without much effort. For some reason general store owners only worried about guarding the front of their premises. We scrambled over the four foot brick wall and through the old oil stained, concreted delivery yard. The main doors had obviously been bricked up long ago. A security door with a shiny steel padlock stood in the center of the back wall.

“Ah, crap. How are we going to get through that?” Rosenberg sighed.

Many homeowners and store keepers thought their premises were safe because they’d installed padlocks, bolts and locks. Most of the time, security equipment was held in place by wood screws in the door and jambs. I’d dealt with countless security claims of people getting robbed by the intruder simply dislodging the screws from a padlock clasp with a boot or screwdriver.

I walked up to the door and gave it a hefty kick with my damp sneakers. The wood splintered and the screws dislodged themselves from the padlock fixing. The door banged open on the second kick.

“Okay, let’s go get some gear,” I said.

Eazy tossed me the baseball bat and drew the hand gun from the back of his waistband. I led the way into the back of store. We moved through a small corridor, passed some hanging racks and a stock room on our left. The store was dim, only lit from the faint sunlight outside in the rectangular shaped shop floor. Sports equipment, such as balls, helmets and hockey sticks were racked to our left and clothing to our right.

I was glad to see there wasn’t much variety so Eazy couldn’t spend loads of time searching for designer brands. We took a mish mash of football tops, jog suits and a few pairs of high end sneakers and training shoes. Rosenberg took a goalie hockey mask and a stick for protection. Eazy grabbed some XL gear for Smith and we stuffed it all in a few plastic carriers left by the payment area.

The whole shopping spree took less than five minutes but we suddenly stopped in our tracks as we were about to leave through the back. Two blasts on a vehicle horn, the warning signal from Batfish.

Chapter Fifty-One

Rosenberg rushed to the window and peeked outside.

“Oh, crap. There’s a huge bunch of zombies out there heading our way,” he wailed.

Eazy and I followed Rosenberg to the window. The pockets of undead we’d seen on the route down Christopher Columbus Drive had formed together, along with more recruits on the way and approached the RV on mass from the west side of the road. The undead hordes were around twenty-five yards from the store front.

“We got to get out of here, now,” Eazy hissed. “Let’s smash our way out the front.”

“No, it’ll take too long and we might get snagged on the broken glass,” I said. “If we cut ourselves that blood to the zombies will smell like a cheeseburger to a stoned guy. Let’s quickly use the back.”

“What are we still stood here for, motherfucker?”

We darted to the rear of the store and back through the outside exit. We threw the bags of clothes over the wall and vaulted over quickly. Scooping up the bags, we pelted around the side of the store and back into the street. The army of zombies closed in, fifteen yards from the RV. Stumbling, shuffling, moaning with arms outstretched, their faces green and puffy. All carried the remains of old injuries of how they became infected. Some wounds were more horrific than others. Some of the undead were unable to walk or without legs and crawled along on their hands amongst the shuffling feet of the gathering horde.

“Holy shit,” Rosenberg squeaked.

Soames jumped out of his car and ineffectively started firing his pistol into the crowd. Batfish saw us and rolled the RV forward. Julia opened the side door, wide eyed and frightened.

“Come on,” she called.

We drew level with the open door and threw the bags inside. Eazy dived in first followed by Rosenberg. I leapt onto the foot well and took another look behind us. Soames had given up trying to shoot the zombies and leaped back inside his Lexus with the clutching hands of the undead only a few feet away.

“Hurry up, Soames,” I yelled.

He started the engine and moved forward as dead hands grasped the roof and banged the windows. The Lexus pulled away from the zombie mass and quickly caught up behind us.

I ducked my head back inside the RV and slid the side door shut. Smith and Eazy were already trying on their new sports gear.

“Ah, Christ. I look like some fucking sports jock,” Smith groaned as he pulled on his New York Jets shirt, jog pants and Nike sneakers.

“You’re looking good, Smith,” Eazy said, smirking.

“Can anybody tell me where the hell we are going?” Batfish yelled from the cab.

“I’m just trying to remember my way around here,” Eazy called back. “I haven’t been around Jersey City for a while.” He moved into the cab to ride shotgun with Batfish.

I moved to the cab doorway and looked through the windshield. The undead grew in numbers as we passed through the street. The eastern end of Christopher Columbus Drive was more up market the closer we came to the waterfront, with large financial buildings and expensive looking fitness clubs. Clusters of the dead watched as we went by and slowly followed.

“Does the SatNav work?” I blurted, pointing at the small screen on the dash.

“Don’t be an asshole,” Eazy snapped, shooting me his badass look. “There are no more signals. We tried miles back.”

“We’re going to be in the fucking Hudson in a minute,” Batfish screamed. She twisted and turned the steering wheel to avoid stationary vehicles and large groups of zombies who grabbed at the RV with snarling, angry faces.

“Okay, take the next left,” Eazy said. “We’ll try and get back up on the Interstate.”

Batfish hauled the RV around the next available left exit. For one horrible moment I thought the vehicle was going to roll on its side. We’d be easy prey for the advancing mob of zombies in that horrific little scenario.

We drove by some large, high rise hotels with huge parking lots, where we could see the harbor and marina between the buildings. The blue rippling waves of the Hudson lay beyond, to the right.

“Which way now, Eazy?” Batfish asked, with some nervousness in her voice.

Eazy sat silently, glancing down the side roads to the left. The crowds of zombies milled around the streets and hotel parking lots, watching as we drove by.