The Left Series (Book 2): Left Alone (28 page)

“We’ll unload the diesel here, Chief, if that’s okay with you?” Smith’s words broke my trip down memory lane. “It’s probably best if that jerk on the boat doesn’t see you.”

“All right, it’s your call,” Cole answered.

Smith and I removed our flak jackets and tossed them across the front seats.

“Hey, Wilde Man, go check if the boat is still moored up down there, will you? I don’t want to unload all these canisters for nothing.”

“Okay.” I nodded and set off through the trees, heading down the river bank.

The dipping sun shone through the branches as I batted my way through the trees. My mind was focused on Brady and my family. The image of Brady trying to stop the undead attacking him with nothing more than a crucifix and his pathetic faith in a God that had long since given up on our species, floated around my head. I missed my mom and my sister and dwelled on their dubious existence. I hadn’t heard from either of them since the outbreak but my dad had told me my sister, Vicky had escaped her ravaged city of San Francisco and got to Alcatraz Island, home of the infamous jail. I had terminated my own father’s existence on a yacht in Battery Park Harbor. He had turned but I knew that memory of shooting him in the head would haunt me for the rest of my living days.

The shards of sunlight between the branches dazzled me for a moment. The air seemed hotter and more humid all of a sudden. Beads of sweat turned to drips, then to trickles running down my face and back. I stopped walking, bent down and threw up into the long grass. The taste of Brady’s whiskey filled my mouth along with the unpleasant tang of stomach bile. I felt sick and tired of my existence. Maybe I’d be better off dead. No more fatigue, no more fear, no more feeling sick to my stomach every minute of the day and night. But I knew I had to try and stay alive and not for myself. I knew my role. I was Smith’s right hand man and Batfish’s friend and confident. I had to stay alive for those two people. They relied on me; we were a family of sorts.

All thoughts of family and friends and my former life washed away in an instant when I heard branches snapping and a low moan only a few yards to my left.

Chapter Forty-Six

An elderly, gaunt man dressed in a ragged suit staggered towards me. He held out his boney hands in my direction and his pale white face sagged around a gaping rip in his left cheek. His left eyeball hung, dangling from its socket over his face wound.

Another spurt of vomit erupted from my stomach and my abdominal muscles tightened into a cramping spasm.

“Hold on, fellow,” I spat. “Don’t attack me yet, it’s not fair.” I held out my hand trying to ward off the approaching ghoul.

I thought again of Chaplain Brady trying to delay the zombies ripping him apart with a piece of metal in the shape of a cross. They didn’t give a fuck about religion or what was right or wrong or fair. I’d have to pull myself together if I wanted to survive.

All my frustration, anger and primeval instincts erupted in one moment. I felt so pissed off with the world, the human race and our predicament that I vented my fury on this particular zombie. I swung my right hand when he came into range and caught him square on the side of his jaw.

I heard a crack of shattering bone and teeth when the blow connected. I was no boxer but Mike Tyson would have been proud of that punch. The zombie may have been old but he was a tall guy. He reeled and went over sideways, his face smashing into a tree trunk as he fell. I seized the moment and bolted forward towards his prone body. He turned his head and scowled at me amongst the long grass.

“Fuck you, dickhead!” I seethed through clenched teeth, as I stood over him. “I’ve had enough shit to last me two fucking life times.”

I stomped on his face with my right boot. The red mist of anger engulfed me and I kept stomping until I heard the satisfying crack of the guy’s skull cave in.

I finally stopped when I was too fatigued to carry on any longer. My right foot and lower leg of my pants was covered with blood and porridge like brain matter. The elderly zombie guy lay still and unmoving; his head was splattered like a piñata at a kid’s party.

“Atta boy! That’s the way to do it.” I recognized my own voice drifting through the trees and looked up to see my alternative self grinning at me through the branches. “I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“Fuck off!” I barked, in a hoarse reply.

Breathing heavily, I wiped my blood stained foot in the long grass and threw up again while I was doing it. I glanced around to see if my own hallucinate self was still with me but he’d thankfully vanished. His mocking bullshit was the last thing I needed. 

“Shit.” I spat the last of my stomach contents into the grass and felt my pockets for my cigarettes.

The first draw of nicotine made me gag again but the smoke helped mask the taste of puke. I knew I had to press on. I steadily trod down the river bank, through the trees and the hole in the wire fence until I came to the water’s edge. The dinghy was still on the bank and the Navy boat was anchored in the same spot. At least Headlong hadn’t made a run for it.

I waved my hand overhead to see if I could get any reaction from the vessel as it drifted redundantly back and forth on the tide.

“Hey, Headlong!” I yelled across the bank. “We’ve got the diesel.” My voice was croaky and hoarse.

Nobody replied to my cries. Nobody strolled across the deck. Maybe they were asleep down below. A nagging doubt of apprehension pricked my senses. I stood and smoked my cigarette watching the river. Everything seemed so calm and peaceful as though the world’s troubles were insignificant there. Birds dived and dipped through the air above the flowing water, oblivious to the bleak plight of the human race.

I flicked away the cigarette butt and decided to return to the Humvee. Whatever the scenario, we’d still have to diesel up to continue our journey. I trod cautiously back up the incline, as I didn’t want to be caught off guard by another lurking zombie and moved through the trees and the gap in the fence.

Smith, Cole and Milner had unloaded the last of the Jerry cans from the back of the truck when I reached the roadside. Hernandez stood on guard, watching the road for any incoming undead.

“You took your time,” Smith mumbled at me and then lit a smoke.

I muttered a reply, something between a “yeah” and “right.” Then I said, “the Navy boat is still floating around the river in the same place. I didn’t see anyone onboard though.”

Smith nodded and turned back to the military guys. His despair at having to shoot Chaplain Brady seemed to have rapidly evaporated. I could tell by the way Smith chatted and exchanged banter with Cole, Milner and Hernandez that he enjoyed being in their company. They were all military guys of a similar background, same experiences, comparable attitudes, likes and dislikes – tough guys who could handle themselves. Then there was me and Batfish – a scrawny loser and a moody Goth girl. I thought Smith must have been inwardly yearning to ditch us and spend his time with these guys.

“You want a hand lugging these canisters down to the shore?” Cole asked Smith.

“No thanks, Chief. Wilde Man and I can handle it from here. Better you stay out of sight of the boat or that dipshit onboard might start blazing with that cannon.”

“Okay, your choice, man,” Cole sighed and folded his arms in resignation. 

“You okay, Wilde Man? You look a little peaky,” Smith said, as he lifted a Jerry can in each hand.

“Just feeling a little sick, nothing to worry about.” I couldn’t be bothered to recount my ordeal with the old zombie.

“Well, if we’re of no more use to you, we might as well shoot,” Cole said. “Good luck to you both and remember us if you need any help.”

Smith put down his Jerry cans and shook Cole’s hand again. We all shook hands with each other before Milner fired up the Humvee and U-turned in the road. Cole gave us a salute and a final wave from the machine gun turret and we watched them head back towards the air base.

“There are a few good guys left on this shitty planet,” Smith muttered, as we watched the Humvee disappear into the distance. “Come on, Wilde Man, let’s get this shit shifted.”

It took us the best part of an hour to carry all twenty-one Jerry cans down the river bank to the shore. Sweat ran down my face and dripped off my chin through exertion. My arms felt as though they had been pulled from their sockets and I twice slipped going down the grassy, moist bank. I deliberately deviated from the route I had taken earlier to avoid having to see the zombie corpse with the crushed in skull. Smith either hadn’t noticed or hadn’t asked me about my blood encrusted pants leg.

Still we saw no movement on the upper deck of the Navy boat as we carried the canisters to the water’s edge. I was slightly worried about what had happened onboard in our absence.

The sun began its regular dip, causing the shadows of the trees to elongate and shade us as we moved up and down the bank. Smith muttered some song tune that was vaguely familiar while we trudged up and down the incline.

We stood at the edge of the river smoking cigarettes when our task was complete. I wiped the sweat from my face with my free hand and listened to the crickets chirp amongst the long grass and tall reeds.

“We’ll have to make several trips in the dinghy to get this lot over to the boat,” Smith said. “I haven’t seen that asshole, Headlong. I thought he’d be about on the upper deck by now.”

“Surely, no zombies could have got to them out there on the river?” I said.

“We can’t be too sure. Those undead motherfuckers are wily bastards when it comes to feeding time.”

I thought again of my dad and how his whole ship’s company on his yacht had succumbed to the infection. One contaminated person on a floating vessel was like a ticking time bomb. Only a matter of time before the whole damn cargo would give way to the threat. The only escape route was over the side into the drink.

We loaded eight Jerry cans into the dinghy and pushed it into the murky river. I hopped inside and Smith gunned the engine then swung around in a U-turn so we were facing the Navy boat.

The dinghy chugged along through the water until we came alongside the larger Navy vessel. We still saw no sign of life on the upper deck. Smith hollered in a barking voice that would have awoken the dead if they weren’t already stumbling around the planet. I heard Spot whining in the control cabin so I knew he was okay, which was some consolation.

“Where the fuck is that jerk weed?” Smith growled. “I don’t want to be hanging my ass out here after dark.”

He impatiently began banging his large fist on the side of the boat’s hull. Eventually, Headlong barged through the hatch, looking even more disheveled than usual with his shirt open and his hair sticking up in clumps. He shuffled across the deck brandishing the M-16.

“Where the hell have you been?” Smith barked. “We’ve been out here for over an hour waiting for your worthless ass.” Smith was a master at exaggeration. “And where is Tippy? I hope you haven’t hurt her.”

“Ah, quit whining like a bitch, will ya? I’ve been taking a nap, is all.”

“It’s all right for some,” Smith argued. “We’ve been to hell and back getting this fucking diesel.”

Headlong scoured the interior of the dinghy and nonchalantly sniffed. “Is that all you got? That’s not going to get us very far now, is it?”

“There’s another whole bunch of canisters back on the river bank. Are you blind as well as dumb? Now, we need you to haul these Jerry cans onboard so we can go back and get the rest of them.”

“How do you suppose I do that?”

Smith sighed in exasperation. “We either lift the dinghy back onboard and unload it or you lower a rope over the side and we tie it to the handles and you haul them up. It’s totally up to you. You’re the one holding the gun, remember?”

Headlong smirked at being reminded he was in charge. He was enjoying the power he held over us.

“I’ll go get the woman. She can do the rope hauling thing. Fat bitch needs to lose a few pounds, anyhow.”

Smith threw his hands up in the air and made a dramatic, infuriated sigh. “For fuck’s sake, man. We’ll be here all night.”

Headlong hobbled back down the hatch and reappeared two minutes later behind Tippy, who looked as though she had been crying. Her eyes were red and puffy and her face was pale. Headlong explained the task ahead of her.

“I don’t think I’m strong enough to lift those heavy canisters,” she wailed.

“You’ll do what I damn well tell ya,” Headlong shrieked at her, his face a few inches from hers.

He searched the upper deck lockers and found a length of coiled, thin, blue rope. He thrust the rope at Tippy and yelled at her to lower the end down to the dinghy.

Smith and I exchanged nervous glances. This operation had ‘
Fuck Up
’ written all over it. I envisaged the two of us dodging falling Jerry cans for the next hour or so.

Chapter Forty-Seven

The whole maneuver was, as expected, painfully slow going. Tippy did a lot of puffing and panting and wailing while hauling up the Jerry cans. Headlong did plenty of hollering and yelling and calling her all the obscenities he could think of from his limited vocabulary. Smith and I protested and offered to hop back onboard and help her lift the canisters. Headlong was oblivious to our pleas. The bastard was enjoying reducing the poor woman to tears and making her feel useless.

At least Tippy gained some respite when we had loaded all eight cans onboard and went back to the shore for more diesel.

“I can’t stand much more of this,” I hissed to Smith through clenched teeth, as we loaded the second cargo of fuel into the dinghy.

“Me either, but we have to bide our time. Don’t worry, that son of a bitch is going to regret ever setting eyes on us, kid.”