The Left Series (Book 2): Left Alone (7 page)

The room was cluttered with strange paraphernalia running the length of the four walls. Human and animal skulls were stacked onto the branches of a thick, dead tree. The branches poked through the empty eye sockets making the tree look like a macabre configuration of death. Framed photographs of people were propped against wooden statuettes and African style, waist–high drums. Multi colored bead necklaces were draped across strange, wooden carved masks hanging from the walls.

Top Hat strolled into the room behind the others and gestured for Smith and me to sit down on the wooden packing crates surrounding a round wooden table that looked as old as the buildings, in the center of the room.

Smith flashed me a confused glance as we parked our butts on the packing crates. The guys with the guns surrounded us then backed away when Top Hat sat down on a chair opposite us. Spot whimpered and sat between my feet. The poor dog was probably as confused as we were.

“You get bit?” Top Hat growled.

“No, we’re not bit,” Smith said. “Hey, do you mind if we smoke in here?”

Top Hat waved his hand in a gesture that Smith took as a go ahead movement. Smith handed me a cigarette, put one in his mouth and offered the pack to Top Hat. Smith flicked open his Zippo and lit our cigarettes.

Top Hat blew smoke across the table and stared intently at us.

“What’s the deal here then, fella?” Smith asked. “We don’t mean you or your people any harm.”

“They’re looking for boat men,” Skull Face interrupted.

Top Hat gave Skull Face a brief glance then turned his attention back to us.

“Boat men are bad men,” he said.

Smith nodded. “Very bad men. Those bastards took one of our crew, a girl. They robbed us and shot and killed our other dog.” He pointed to Spot sitting on the floor. “We want our girl back and make those bad men pay for what they did.”

Top Hat shook his head and I spotted a mournful look in his eyes.

“You won’t have no luck trying to get your property back from the boat men. We had women here once, not so long ago but the boat men came and took all of them. That’s why we put up the fence and armed ourselves, to stop boat men coming here again. We all came here when the dead began to rise up and walk. We came out here to get away from society but bad men still around, even when most folk are dead.”

“Where can we find these men?” Smith asked.

Top Hat sighed and stubbed out his cigarette on the floor with his foot.

“How can we be sure you’re not with the boat men?”

“We’re not, I assure you,” I said. “We shot two of them back at the Marina a few miles downriver.”

“You killed boat men?”

“We shot one of them dead,” I lied, omitting the fact we left him to be eaten alive by the zombies. “The other one got away on the Navy boat with our friend and all our weapons and supplies. They sunk our boat and we got away from the marina in a shitty, small speed boat that broke down on the river. We moored it on the bank. We’ve got jack shit left apart from the hand guns we carried and two bottles of booze.”

Top Hat’s gaze flicked between Smith and me. I guessed he was weighing up whether we were telling the truth or not. We sure as shit were heading for a rough time if he thought we were telling lies.

Chapter Eleven

Top Hat leaned back in his chair and rocked the two front legs slightly off the floor. He tilted his head back and to one side, studying us.

“How come you survived all this time?”

“We escaped from New York City in an old coastguard boat,” I explained. “We’ve been sailing around the coast, heading south for the last few months. We’ve been looking for a safe place to hole up for a while.”

“You avoided the zombie in New York?”

“It was rough but we managed somehow. We lost a few of our party along the way,” Smith said.

Top Hat nodded.

“I can’t decide to believe your story or not. But I’m a reasonable man so I’ll let you on your way. You’ll find boat men along the river, further up.”

“Okay, we appreciate that,” Smith said. “Can you fix us up with some spare weapons and ammo?”

Top Hat laughed and shook his head. “We let you on your way on one condition. You leave the guns you carried here with us.” He prodded the table with his index finger, as if to reiterate his command.

Smith sighed and rubbed his hand through his hair.

“So you’re turning us free without any weapons, with zombies and bad guys running amok out there?”

“That’s the deal. You bring our women back here and we’ll return your guns,” Top Hat confirmed.

I didn’t think a bad situation could get any worse, but it just had.

“Where did you get all your weapons from?” I asked.

“Used to be an army base up the river.” Top Hat waved his right arm. “We took all the guns and ammo that was left after boat men took our women. We patrol the area for zombies and boat men at least every hour. We’ll make sure you get down to the river.”

At least Top Hat and his crew gave us a meal of sorts before we left their camp. A chubby guy appeared through the doorway, carrying two bowls containing a fishy soup- like substance. He plunked the bowls on the table in front of us and handed Smith and I a tarnished spoon each.

Top Hat grinned and gestured for us to eat. I didn’t like the look or smell of the gruel but didn’t know if and when we were going to eat again, so I had no choice but to tuck in. Smith pulled a resigned face and also slurped away.

“Good luck to you,” Top Hat said after we’d finished our soup.

I didn’t know if he was being genuine or discarding us like irritating insects. Skull Face and Half Face held their shot guns and waited for us by the doorway. I noticed they carried hand axes looped into their belts. They motioned towards the daylight streaming through the open threshold.

The dazzling sun caused us to squint and I was momentarily blinded by the brightness as we moved out of the building. My vision returned as we trudged towards the perimeter gates. They buzzed open and I noticed the no-legged zombie that Half Face was dragging around, was now chained by its arms to the outside of the gate.

I glanced at Smith as we passed by the snarling jaws of the restrained member of the undead. What the hell was the point of that?

Half Face and Skull Face carried shot guns at the ready as we made our way through the woods back to the river bank. Spot strained on his leash as though he was desperate to get back to the boat. How the hell we were going to steer the boat was another mystery we’d have to solve somehow when we got there.

We showed them the speed boat hidden away under the tree branches and Smith explained how the engine had cut out and wouldn’t restart.

“We have a boat you can use,” Skull Face barked.

I retrieved the bag of booze and cigarettes from the deck of the worthless speed boat and we followed the two guys through the trees alongside the river bank.

Skull Face stopped a few hundred yards up the track and unearthed a small, blue fiberglass rowing boat from underneath some draping willow branches. A pair of plastic oars lay across the two wooden struts running horizontally across the deck.

“The boat will get you across the river,” Skull Face said. “Boat men are sometimes a mile further up.” He pointed right against the tide of the Mississippi.

Smith sighed as he studied the boat. “Well, thanks for your help, boys,” he said, with more than a hint of sarcasm. “This is a real dream machine.”

I shared Smith’s apprehension. This piece of shit boat didn’t look like it was even going to float, let alone get us across the river.

Half Face removed the hand axe from his belt and handed it to Smith.

“Go, on your way,” he muttered.

The two guys turned and disappeared into the trees.

“Well, now what?” I sighed.

Smith smashed the axe blade into the willow tree trunk in frustration.

“We keep getting fucked over,” he spat. “First by those bastards on the boat and now by this bunch of weird freaks.”

“What about your backup piece?” I asked.

Smith groaned. “I lost that when we jumped off that fucking roof. What are we going to do, now?”

“Go to plan B?” I suggested.

“Remind me of our multitude of options again, Wilde Man? In all this excitement, I kind of forgot what we were doing.” Smith whirled his arms around and paced in a small circle.

“Take the boat over the river to the highway on the other side.”

Smith sighed and placed his hands on his hips. “You think?” He hissed.

I shrugged. I knew Smith was pissed off and I felt the same way. He was unusually losing his cool. I pulled the axe blade out of the tree and slipped it into the bag.

“We might need it,” I said. “It’s the only weapon we’ve got.”

“Unless we throw this shitty canoe at any zombies we come across. That’s about all its good for,” Smith spat. “Come on. Let’s get this thing onto the water.”

We slid the boat a few feet across the damp soil and into the reeds by the river bank. Spot hopped inside as we pushed the boat further towards the water. Smith and I jumped inside when the water was around our knees. We took an oar each and paddled our way across the expanse of the Mississippi, tacking against the flowing current.

Sweat rolled off me when we reached the opposite river bank. Smith looked hot and pissed off when we dragged the boat out of the water onto the mud beyond the reeds. I was worried a gator might leap out of the water and grab me at any minute.

Spot leapt out of the boat and scurried along the bank before cocking his leg over a tuft of long grass.

We scrambled up the bank and walked onto a flat expanse of dusty ground with a few sparse trees dotted between two parallel roads. No vehicles or buildings were in plain sight and my heart sank, in the knowledge we were in for an uncomfortable trek.

“This is the backwaters of America, Wilde Man. There’s no public transport out here,” Smith said.

“It doesn’t look like there’s anything here,” I sighed. “Those guys who took Batfish could be miles away by now.”

“Yeah, and we’ve got nothing to fight them with either,” Smith groaned.

We started walking west along the highway, keeping our eyes on the river to our right. I guessed the time was somewhere in the late afternoon, although times and dates didn’t mean very much anymore. The only thing that mattered right now was trying to recover our friend from the clutches of the badass boat men. Our situation seemed hopeless. We had one hand axe against all the firepower of the boat men and millions of hungry undead. Somehow, our luck had to change for the better. 

Chapter Twelve

Our mood didn’t improve when we were drenched by a brief but heavy rain shower. Smith and I passed the bourbon bottle between us, taking a few gulps to try and ease our stress. Spot trotted along beside me, squinting into the rain.

The downpour stopped a few minutes before we spotted a building a few hundred yards in the distance. I hoped there was a working vehicle we could use near to the building. Walking out in the open was dangerous and time consuming.

A metal sign swung between its stand mounts, creaking as it moved in the breeze outside the gray colored, shutter board building.

“U.S. Post Office,” Smith read the faded sign. “I don’t think any mail has left this place for a while.”

We looked over the property. Heavy, white wooden shutters covered the ground floor windows beneath an overhanging porch and three dark windows were built into the roof. A red pick-up truck stood to the right of the post office grounds. The perimeter boundary was marked by a wooden, split rail fence. 

“Do you think that truck will start?”

Smith shrugged. “The battery will be flat if it hasn’t been used in a while. We’ve got no tools and no battery jumper.”

We walked over to the truck and I brushed the dust away from the side windows. No bodies or zombies were inside and Smith cautiously opened the driver’s door. The ignition had no keys hanging from the silver slot. Smith closed the door and we turned back to the post office. 

“Shall we take a look inside?”

“All right, there may be a firearm or some food we can take,” Smith mumbled.

We slowly walked towards the post office, warily searching the perimeter for any signs of sudden movement. We didn’t have to wait too long.

I saw something flapping about to my right. Spot growled and strained on his rope leash as I turned my head. An overweight, old guy covered in dust from head to foot and wearing the remains of a red shirt and denims lumbered towards us. For one second I thought he was one of the good guys but he opened his mouth and droned a low, monotonous bleat.

“Give me the fucking hatchet,” Smith ordered.

I rummaged in the bag and handed him the hand axe. Smith gripped the handle and casually strolled up to the old guy. The dust covered zombie staggered forward with gathering speed on unsteady legs, moaning in short, low bursts. Smith met him head on, raised the axe and slam dunked the blade into the top of the ghoul’s head. The blade split the undead guy’s skull like a watermelon and brown liquid dribbled from the groove between his eyes. Smith pulled out the axe and swung again, this time in a horizontal arc. The axe blade connected with the zombie’s neck and sliced through the rotten flesh and bone. The head detached from the body and flew through the air before rolling amongst the dust like a hairy soccer ball.

I was halfway revolted and halfway impressed at Smith’s combat skills. The headless body tottered for a few seconds before crumpling to the ground. Smith bent forward and wiped off the brown sludge smeared over the axe blade onto the deceased zombie’s red shirt.

“Did that relieve some stress?”

“Oh, yeah,” Smith sighed.