The Left Series (Book 3): Left On The Brink (19 page)

“What about Cordoba and Johnson?” I asked.

“Ah, fuck them,” he hissed. “They were quick enough to leave us all alone. They’ll soon get themselves back to the C-17 if we can get those pumps going.”

“Okay,” I huffed. I was slightly disappointed I hadn’t managed to gain Cordoba’s acquaintance but we had to complete the mission and get out of this place.

“We need to find some kind of maintenance office and get a blueprint or a detailed map of the workings of the terminal,” Smith said.

“Where the hell do we find that?”

“My best guess is back down on the ground floor. There’s only the lobby and departure lounges on these two upper levels.”

“You’re probably right,” I agreed. “But we’ve got to find a way down there for a start.”

Smith sighed. “I know. We can’t take any service elevators as there’s no damn power. We’ll have to fight our way down the levels.”

Smith’s words reminded me of a video game I used to play when I had to fight my way through different levels, controlling an on-screen character. Those were happy times in an easy environment, when fighting for your life was only a term of phrase.

Chapter Twenty-Five

We knew we had no choice but to go down the escalators and back into the lobby. The crowd of undead pursuers behind us would eventually overcome the obstacle of the staircase and follow our path through the departure lounge. We could run in circles around the terminal forever without achieving anything, or at least until the undead caught up with us. Smith and I had to either escape the building or try and get the refueling mission back on track.

Smith led the way down the escalator on the left side. We kept in a crouching position and sh
uffled forward on our haunches between the stainless steel, outer cladding, staying out of any immediate sight from the ground or above. Smith stopped when we reached the bottom of the escalator. The lobby was still relatively populated with around thirty undead, scuffling backwards and forwards across the floor. They knew their prey was around someplace but obviously couldn’t figure out in which direction to go.

The body at the bottom of the steps still lay unmoving and had a twisted grimace frozen on its face. The dead zombie was male and had a large indent in the top of his skull
from where he’d crashed head first down the escalator. His eyes remained open and unsettled me as Smith and I crouched near his corpse.

“That dead guy is giving me the shits,” I hissed.

“Ignore him, he’s the least of our worries,” Smith grunted. “I’m trying to figure out which route to take. That staircase we came up when we entered the terminal is out; it’s only a fire escape. The left walkway only takes us the same route we’ve just been. We’ll try going right where Johnson and Cordoba went.” He signaled with his hand as though he was explaining directions to a lost driver. “We move fast and don’t fire your weapon unless absolutely necessary.”

“Got it,” I said.

“Ready?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Right, let’s go,” Smith hissed.

We gripped our rifles, slowly raised ourselves from our haunches then sprinted from cover towards the walkway to our right.
Our fast movement allowed us to dodge the outstretched arms of the zombies closest by. Those undead in the distance at the far end of the lobby turned but we were gone by the time they could follow. Smith and I headed into the walkway, running into yet another dim corridor.

Another burst of static sounded through the headset but no words followed. We rounded a corner and slowed to a brisk walking pace. 

“Somebody is trying to get through on the radio,” I said, breathing heavily.

“We may as well give up with these fucking things. They’re useless,” Smith snorted.

The headset was starting to irritate my ears and I felt like ripping the damn thing off my head. In fact, I was becoming sick of the damn airport, period. I just wanted to get back in the air and away from the undead hordes.

The walkway led us to two sets of concrete staircases
facing the walls to the left and right. They both led to the upper and lower levels. I knew we wanted to go down but wondered which route we were going to take.

“Which way do we go now?” I sighed.

Smith moved to each staircase, gripped the chrome balustrade and peered down into the levels below.

“I can’t see anything down there, only more steps,” he said.
“I guess it is make your mind up time. Left or right?”

I shrugged and had an urge to go right but my hunches were usually wrong.

“Let’s go left,” I said with conviction.

“I hope you’re right,” Smith said, rounding the balustrade.

We trotted down the staircase and the light became dimmer, almost darkness. Our shadows became fainter against the whitewashed walls. I felt uneasy as we slowed to a steady plod. We didn’t know who or what the hell was lurking down in the depths of the building.

“It’s getting too dark down here, Smith. I can’t see a damn thing,” I whispered.

“Hang on, I brought the flashlight but I’ll have to reach inside these cold weather pants,” Smith said.

I stopped and waited, listening for any sounds of approaching footfalls on the staircase. All I heard was Smith rustling through his clothing.
The flashlight blinked on but the artificial glow didn’t make me feel a whole lot better. I didn’t like being trapped in dark, confined spaces and the flashlight beam was a possible beacon of light to any members of the undead who could be rattling around the staircase.

We traipsed slowly further down, traversing the crisscrossing stairway
. Smith shone the flashlight into the dark areas below as we descended. Smith pulled out his pack of cigarettes and we both had a smoke to try and quell the edginess.

The staircase ended and the floor space
spread out into a deserted, open plan office area. Smith slowly waved the flashlight beam in sweeping arcs, back and forth across the room. Empty work desks piled with printers, paperwork and computer monitors stood in neat vertical rows. A set of stainless steel elevator doors stood to our right as we trod slowly into the office area.

“Is this what we’re looking for?” I asked.

“Who knows,” Smith muttered. “Let’s take a look around. We may find something of use.”

We moved slowly towards the desks, Smith continually swept the area with the flashlight beam.
He flicked through some paperwork on a few of the desks. I saw a few little trinkets and photos amongst the usual work clutter on some of the desks. Pictures of smiling children with gap toothed grins peered out from one picture frame, sitting next to a plastic, monkey shaped pen holder. A card that read “
Bang Head Here,
” printed in big red letters was taped to the center of the desk. Normal, family people, going through the usual stresses and strains of life had worked here before the apocalypse had kicked in. Each of them was never to return to that life of routine normality. They had three possible outcomes – dead, zombie or still alive, surviving in abject terror and misery. Smith snapped me out of my depressing musings.         

“This office is definitely something to do with airport maintenance,” he said. “There are some invoices from contractors for work carried out right here.”

I noticed three closed doors at the back of the open plan area as Smith waved the beam around.

“What about those rooms back there?” I said, pointing to the rear of the office space.

Smith shone the light beam on each door in turn. “All right, let’s take a look.”

We threaded our way between the desks and approached the door to the left side. Smith stood a pace back with the flashlight beam pointed at the center of the doorway and his M-16 at the ready. I tried the handle, pushed the door and took a step back, raising my rifle.

Smith shone the light around the small office and it seemed empty and clear of any hazards. A chunky desk sat squarely in the center of the room and gray, metallic filing cabinets of varying heights stood against the walls. A damp stench, similar to stagnant water wafted from the room. 

I let Smith step inside the office first. After all, he was the one holding the flashlight and he was more proficient with a rifle than me.
I followed Smith inside and he flashed the light beam around the room. The desk was clear and empty, I tried the filing cabinets but all were locked.

“There’s nothing much in here,” Smith muttered. “Let’s try the next office.”

“Let me just try the desk drawers,” I said. “There may be some keys to these filing cabinets in there.”

“All right, if you must,” Smith sighed. “But you’ll only likely find a bunch of old billing notes in those lockers.”

I moved around the desk and trod on something spongy and flat.

“What the fuck? Hand me the flashlight, Smith.”

Smith obliged and I shone the beam at my feet. I recoiled in shock when I saw the flashlight was illuminating a human hand.

Chapter Twenty-Six

I took a step back, pointing my M-16 at the dark shape of a body on the floor and moved the flashlight beam slowly across the hand, following the line of a clothed arm. The prone figure lay face down with the head twisted to one side. I shone the light over the visible half side of the face. The skin was tight and gray and the one visible eye was tightly shut. The remains of some sort of liquid had dried around the mouth, making it look as though a snail had crawled over his face. The body used to be a guy, probably somewhere in his forties, judging by his receding, ginger hairline, outdated crumpled brown suit and furrows in his forehead.

Smith silently shuffled next to me and took a look at the body.

“Don’t worry your ass about him; he’s not going to cause us any problems. He looks like he’s been dead a while,” he said, bending down and picking up something up from the floor.

I shone the beam at the object in Smith’s hand and saw it was an empty, plastic pill bottle.

“Seconal,” Smith read from the label on the bottle.

“What’s that, like rat poison or something?” I asked.

Smith grunted a laugh. “Not exactly. It’s a barbiturate used for chronic sleep deprivation or an anti-depressant but if you shovel down a whole tub of these things, they’ll kill you. This guy obviously saw what was coming and took his own way out.” He tossed the pill bottle over his shoulder.

I shivered and remembered my mum used to say that “
someone had walked on your grave
,” when anybody randomly shuddered. Smith and I had seen a few suicides on our travels but something seemed more than a little sad about this particular scene. Some middle aged office guy with no family photos or any stupid toys, cards or ornaments on his desk, takes his own life at his place of work. Maybe he was trapped in the building or maybe he was contemplating suicide before the zombie flu spread throughout the world.

Smith slapped me on the shoulder, breaking my thoughts. “Come on, Wilde. Let’s see what lies behind door number two.”
He lamely tried to imitate some third rate, TV game show host.

We shuffled out of the first office and tried the middle door in the same operation as before.
Smith went in first, holding the flashlight and his M-16 in each hand. I followed him into the second office and the first thing I noticed was a multitude of drooping pot plants, some big, some small, dotted around the floor space and on top of filing cabinets, lockers and on each side edge of the desk.

“Somebody liked their horticulture,” I muttered.

“The plants are as dead as everybody else in this place,” Smith scoffed. “I’ve never seen the attraction in keeping plants indoors. It’s like growing a lawn in your living room instead of owning a rug.”

I frowned and shook my head. Sometimes Smith’s opinions seemed so bizarre, I wasn’t surprised he
ended up on the wrong side of the law.

The desk was littered with reams of paperwork and dog-eared cardboard folders, which were splitting along the sealed edges. Several filing cabinets and lockers remained open and the whole office seemed in the midst of disorganized chaos when the area was obviously abandoned. Maybe, whoever worked in the office was searching for something
while in a state of panic. Perhaps they were looking for car keys, a gun or their personal dope stash?

“Halle-fucking-luiah,” Smith chimed.

I turned and saw him staring at the wall to the right side of the desk. I hoped he suddenly hadn’t found religion and wasn’t about to recite a prayer.