Left in the Cold (The Left Series)

by Christian Fletcher

  “Let’s do this,” the tall guy muttered. He tilted his head back down and gazed around the surrounding landscape.

  I didn’t know what this guy had in mind but I didn’t think the outcome was going to be a favorable one for us. The posse of guys moved around the front of the RV so they came into direct view. They guys in the combat fatigues fanned out in a line, around twenty feet in front of us, raising their weapons at waist height but definitely pointing in our direction. They stood with their backs to the saloon with mean, determined and tight-lipped faces. The sunlight reflected in their sunshades. We returned the gesture, aiming our firearms right back at them. The guys in the black clad uniforms stood either side of the tall man, who seemed to be their leader.

  The tall guy stared at us for a few seconds, with his hands placed on his hips. His face remained expressionless as he gradually turned his head along our ragged line, obviously weighing us all up in his mind. His lips suddenly parted, revealing those perfect white teeth again and he broke into a kind of false smile.

  “Hi,” he said. The voice was deep and confident and the accent was definitely a Texan drawl. “It sure is a warm day.” He removed his cowboy hat, revealing a well groomed and slicked back head of bright blond hair. He fanned his face with the hat. “Woo! Summertime in these parts sure is a bitch.” The guy turned for a second and glanced at the black uniformed guy to his left. “’Aint summer a bitch here, Felix?”

  The guy nodded once, almost mechanically before he answered. “It sure is, sir.”

  The tall guy turned back to us, still fanning his face with his cowboy hat. “See? I told you.”

  “The weather is hot, yeah, we get it,” Smith growled. “Who the fuck are you and why are you attacking us?”

  The tall guy’s smile fell from his face and he stopped fanning. His mouth opened wide and he recoiled slightly in a show of mock astonishment.

  “Wow! You’re a long way from home, New York,” the tall guy said. “I could ask you exactly the same question. You’ve killed a few of my guys and I don’t like that shit, New York.”

  “And you’ve killed a few of ours too,” Smith retorted. “We don’t like that kind of shit either.”

  The tall guy removed his sunshades, revealing his beady, bright blue eyes, the color of a summer sky. He smiled again and he reminded me of a blond Tom Cruise, with that air of total confidence about him.

  “I guess we have ourselves a little problem here, New York,” he said, still smiling. “We need to find ourselves a resolution to our dilemma.” His voice rose in volume slightly, as though he was demanding not negotiating. “We’ve been watching you guys since you landed here in that big assed bird of yours.” He nodded with intensity. “Oh, yeah, we know where you are but we want to know who you are and why you’re here, New York.”

  The tall guy turned to face his armed guard as he spoke and I figured this guy liked the sound of his own voice and was experienced at speaking to the masses. Maybe he was a car salesman or some other bullshit job before the world turned to shit.

  “You guys are good. I’ll give you that,” he continued. “We tried to scare you off with the little undead trap in the saloon and knocking out a few of your soldiers by covert lines of attack but you kept on fighting back.” He smiled at us with a glint of amusement in his eyes and the expression of a psychopath. “I admire the balls on you guys. But don’t fuck with us.”

  “Listen, feller, just tell us what your plans are and we’ll tell you if we agree to your demands,” McElroy piped up.

  The tall guy recoiled and an expression of mock horror engulfed his face.

  “Ah, you see. Things were going so well and now my first fears have all come back to haunt me,” he wailed, pointing at McElroy. “New York here, I could maybe put out with.” He pointed at Smith. “But you,” he said, pointing a finger back at McElroy. “From the land of the bogs and the green? Am I right?” He spoke in a horrendously bad Irish accent.

  McElroy nodded. “I’m from Belfast, Northern Ireland, what of it?”

  The tall guy glanced to the ground, shaking his head. “I can’t allow that on my land. I can’t allow any Irish, Jews, blacks, Asians or any other scumbag nations to poison my territory. That was the cause of all the bad things that happened in the world before. You came to our beloved United States, bred like rats and raped the shit out of the whole damn country. We’ve been given a second chance now, Mister Boggy. We ‘aint going to let that shit happen ever again, fellah. You hear me?” He leaned forward, taking a few steps toward McElroy with an intensity on his face that was nothing short of frightening.

  I inwardly gasped. Shit! This guy was a strongly opinioned racist with a dangerous and venomous view of what was left of the world. We were doomed. I felt my guts churn with anxiety.

  “You Irish took Boston and most of New York and turned it into pig swill country, Mister Boggy,” the tall guy continued, almost ranting.

  McElroy recoiled against the side of the RV and I hoped his finger wouldn’t depress the trigger of his rifle, even though he had every right to blow this racist prick away.

  “I had nothing to do with any of that,” McElroy shouted. “I stayed in Belfast and fought for freedom, just like your country did against the Brits in 1776.”

  The tall guy took a few backward steps and laughed haughtily. “I don’t give a shit about the Brits, you thick headed, Irish pig,” he said. “There’s only one regime in the history of the world that ever got it right.” He unbuttoned his black shirt to reveal a white t-shirt beneath. A logo of a Nazi Swastika above a black inked portrait of Adolf Hitler was emblazoned on his undershirt.

  “The only political party worth any spit in this world is The National Socialist German Workers Party. You people have the absolute privilege of witnessing the rise of the Fourth Reich,” the tall guy yelled.

  He clicked his heels together and braced up to in a ramrod straight stance. He flung out his right arm in a horizontal direction. “Sieg Heil,” he boomed. The black clad guys around the tall man all followed their leader’s salute and verbal hailing.

  The hairs on the back of my neck rose in fear when the Sieg Heil chant echoed from the whole bunch of guys surrounding us.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  The Nazi chanting continued for at least a minute. The scenario was obviously regularly practiced amongst these freaks. It seemed horribly bizarre, this long ago, racist calling echoing around the desert amongst an apocalyptic world in a place that used to be Texas. I felt my knees tremble but tried to keep my badass body language in place. Smith, McElroy, Anderson and I could only exchange concerned glances until the mantra ceased. The guys in the combat fatigues kept their guns trained on us throughout the chanting session but also provided their vocal support.

  A deathly silence fell around the landscape when the Sieg Heil praises come to an end.

  I breathed heavily, attempting to stop myself from mentally falling apart. I glanced at Smith and McElroy for some kind of inspiration. I immediately got an encouraging vibe from Smith. He stood still, with a big grin on his face and I knew he was trying to stifle a laugh.

  The tall guy also picked up on Smith’s expression of mirth. He grinned that Tom Cruise smile again as he stared back at Smith.

  “You’re amused by our dedication to our Fuhrer, New York?” the tall guy asked.

  Smith shook his head. “No, Tex, I’m morbidly engrossed and highly amused by you bunch of cowboy clowns in camouflage. You wouldn’t know a proper war if one rained down on you from the mountains around this place. Your bigoted opinions are as outdated as a VHS video player, friend. You and your pals are nothing but a sad, unfunny and pathetic, fucked up joke.”

  The tall guy raised an eyebrow. He didn’t look offended by Smith’s outburst but he didn’t look too pleased either. He shook his head and grimaced in a disbelieving way.

  “I really don’t give a whiff of horse shit what you like or dislike, New York. There are limited supplies out here but there
’s enough for our community for the foreseeable future. We start getting more colonies of people out here, the supplies are going to run out pretty damn quick, New York.” The tall guy replaced his shades and cowboy hat and remained silent for a few seconds.

  “But I’m a reasonable man, New York,” the tall guy continued. “I’m not a monster. I’ll give you and your people a little time to get going to where ever the hell it is you’re headed. I’ll allow you until sundown tomorrow to head for the hills in the distance and leave us be.” The Hollywood smile returned again “How about that for a piece of negotiating gold, New York?”

  Smith blew out between his lips. “I’d say that sucks, Tex,” he said. “In fact, I’d say that sucks balls like a whore in Dallas.”

  The tall guy laughed in a strange, high pitched tone. “You’re quite the guy, New York.” He waggled a finger in Smith’s direction. “You and your motley crew of Irish and whatnots.”

  “There are still two of our people missing,” Smith stated. All humor had drained from his face and he looked deadly serious. “We have a guy and a woman unaccounted for. Where the hell are they?”

  I knew he was referring to Dovey and Wingate.

  The smile also dropped from the tall guy’s face. “Listen, New York, we could simply slaughter you and your guys like wild dogs out here and then go find your airplane and slaughter all the people on that big old bird too if we wanted.” He glanced down at the toes of his shiny black boots. “Now, I’m offering you boys a temporary white flag of truce for a while and I suggest you take it while it’s still there.”

  “We want our two people back. We want time to collect and bury the people you’ve killed and we want a full tank of aviation gas. We know there’s an airport with a fuel dump out there and that’s where we were headed before you jumped us,” Smith growled.

  The tall guy laughed again and the smile returned. He removed his sunshades and his blue eyes were wide and wild looking.

  “Now, that’s a lot of ‘I wants,’ New York,” he said. “Didn’t your momma ever tell you to ask for stuff politely?” He glanced back at his entourage for a second then turned back to face Smith. “And what makes you think you can demand shit from me anyhow?”

  Smith sighed. “Because you want us to leave you alone and we can’t do that unless you give us the aviation gas and return our two people.”

  I sensed a hint of growing tension in Smith’s voice, as though he knew he didn’t have the upper hand and the tall guy wasn’t going to budge an inch. I also got the feeling the tall guy was simply toying with us, like a cat with a wounded mouse. He was right though; he and his posse of guys could simply have mown us down in a firefight. I also sensed he was looking forward to coming after us when we were obviously going to refuse his ridiculous ultimatum. The tall guy was up for a fight and like his idol, Adolf Hitler had done in the past, he had to justify starting the slaughter of people who didn’t deserve such a brutal fate.

  “You know what I’m going to do, New York?” The tall guy pointed at Smith with the arm of his sunshades still in his hand and spoke like a crazy game show host. “I’m going to let you have one of your people back. Just like you asked, New York.”

  The tall guy grinned and signaled a wave to a couple of his mean looking henchmen, who were brandishing semi automatic firearms and standing beside the second SUV in the line. One of the henchmen nodded and both of them moved towards the rear door of the SUV. The guy that nodded opened the door. He and his accomplice both reached inside the interior then wrenched a hand bound and bloodied faced figure out of the back seat of the vehicle.

  I didn’t recognize who the poor guy was at first. His face was a mask of blood, which ran down his throat and over the front of his jacket. His nose was swollen and bulbous and his eyes were nothing more than puffy, purple slits. The guy moaned and shuffled forward before the two henchmen roughly shoved him downward so he fell to his knees into the dust. He bowed his head and blood and saliva dripped from his mouth. The henchmen took a couple of backward steps and the beaten guy pushed himself upright into a kneeling position. He struggled with the effort as his hands were tied together with thick rope.

  “Shit, that’s Dovey,” McElroy muttered. “What the fuck have they done to him?”

  The tall guy laughed in a high pitched wheeze. “There you go, you guys. There’s your boy right there. You can have him back.”

  Smith grimaced. “What about the woman? Where the hell is she?”

  The tall guy’s smile drained away. “Oh, you mean, Sarah?” He raised his hand and wagged his finger. “Ah, no, New York. You got this situation all wrong. She stays with us. She’s not part of the deal, I’m sorry to say. She is really something, dude. She’s a field medic, she’s tough, she’s white and she’s a hot little number. Sarah is what we’re all about. She is useful to us.” The Hollywood grin returned. “Why, are you a little sweet on her, New York? Aw, that must really hurt your feelings, old buddy.”

  Smith sighed deeply and rumbled slightly. The tall guy was goading him and I knew he didn’t like it but had to stand right where he was and take the verbal battering on the chin.

  “Still, you got your guy back,” the tall guy said, replacing his sunshades on his head. He shuffled to his left a little and glanced at Smith. “Hey, New York, check this shit out.”

  The tall guy changed his stance into a hunched posture and he looked like an old Wild West gunslinger with his hand hovering over the holster at his hip. His right hand moved at almost blinding speed, flicking open the holster cover and drawing a big silver revolver handgun. The tall guy aimed the firearm beyond the RV and fired a couple of rounds that boomed across the desert. Dovey’s head jerked backwards and to his left as the top of his skull exploded in a red mist. Within a split second, Dovey lurched sideways and rolled over onto his back. Blood pooled into the sand around him and part of his brain slopped out from the shattered skull.

  My guts churned over and I swallowed down the acid tasting stomach bile threatening to erupt from my mouth.

  “You bastard,” McElroy muttered.

  “Woo-hoo!” the tall guy whooped. “See that fucking head explode, New York?” He grinned and raised his big handgun to his face, blowing the gun smoke from the barrel. “I know I say it myself, but that was some shit hot shooting, don’t you concur, New York?” He flashed a glance at Smith with that big, wide, white toothed grin.

  “Yeah, amazing, Tex,” Smith spat. “Shooting a stationary target, who I might add was bound up like a Thanksgiving turkey, was unarmed and had the shit beaten out of him at a distance of twenty five yards was really something, Tex. I’m impressed. The Cadet Corps would have given you a gold star for that type of shooting.” The sarcasm in Smith’s tone would have been amusing if the situation had been less horrific.

  The tall guy’s Hollywood smile morphed into a pissed off scowl. “Whatever, New York,” he muttered. He flicked his head sideways to his left and replaced the big revolver back in his hip holster. He placed his hands on his hips and stared down at the ground, making clucking noises.

  I glanced at Smith, wondering what the hell was going to happen next. Smith remained impassive. I knew his inner rage would be reaching boiling point. The tall guy blew out through his lips as though he was bored.

  “Okay, that’s the state of affairs, New York,” he said, glancing up as if to study the landscape. “Take it or leave it, good buddy.” He waved his hand to his guys surrounding us as if to usher them away. The armed guys backed away and the sand buggy engines revved into life. The two gun totting henchmen jumped back into the SUV and vehicle engines roared into life all around us.

  The tall guy glanced back at Smith. The Hollywood smile had totally vanished. His expression was serious and intimidating. “You got until sundown tomorrow to get your shit together and get the hell out of here or we’re coming for you, New York,” he growled.

  Smith said nothing. He just glared at the tall guy.

  The gunmen surrou
nded their leader as he led them back to their SUVs. A couple of the armed guys walked backwards with their weapons still aimed at us. The whole posse climbed into their various vehicles, the engines revved and the wheels spun, sending up a gritty dust cloud that surrounded us. The convoy turned and sped off into the desert, back towards the town of Lajitas, which was obviously their stronghold.

  We all stood in silence for a few moments, waiting for the dust cloud to clear and to fully process the latest incidents.

  The desert wind whipped across the roadway and blew the dust cloud away beyond the saloon roof in front of us. I spat the grit from my mouth and glanced around at the sand covered figures around me. I sensed the despair from each of them apart from Smith. He stood rigid; his squinted gaze seemed focused on the blue sky above us. His blue gray eyes looked like chips of flint.

  “You okay, Smith?” I muttered.

  Smith twisted his head and I heard his neck crick.

  “No, kid,” he growled. “I’m a long way from okay. That fucking cowboy clown has just made the worst decision of his miserable, shit stained life.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  We decided to bury Brooksey and Dovey down in the waste ground at the foot of the hill behind the saloon. Dovey was too much of a mess to cart back to the area where the plane was located. We figured if we were going to dig one grave then we might as well dig two.

  McElroy found some shovels in a tool shed behind the saloon and we dug two deep holes, side by side in the sandy ground. None of us spoke much and McGuiness stayed in the RV while we dug. Anderson and I dug one grave while Smith and McElroy shoveled their way down into the ground to provide another hole for our fallen companions.

  We were done within an hour, sweating, shoveling, and drinking water as we dug, placed bodies into the ground then refilled the holes. We didn’t mark the graves but McElroy muttered a prayer over each burial patch before we turned back and walked towards the RV.