Left in the Cold (The Left Series)

by Christian Fletcher

  “Right, here we fucking go,” I growled.

  I took a few deep breaths, drew the handgun from my holster and set off at a jog down the road. I speeded up when I drew closer to the guy sitting on the quad bike. He didn’t hear my footfalls due to the gunfire raging around the motel and he looked as though he was a complacent type of look out anyhow. I pushed myself to run faster the nearer I got. I slowed slightly when I was around twenty-five feet away from his position.

  The guy tossed his cigarette butt down on the ground beside him and grunted out a cough. He must have seen my shadow crossing the blacktop or slightly heard my approach as he turned in the seat of the quad bike a little. His face immediately changed from a nonchalant kind of smug expression to an open mouthed, wide eyed look of shock when he saw me approaching.

  I kept running forward and I noticed his hand moved towards a gun holster on the right side of his hips. I raised my own handgun, pointing the barrel at his chest.

  “Don’t fucking do it, scumbag,” I shouted.

  I knew the guy was mulling over going for the big, silver revolver sticking out of his hip holster. He hesitated then raised his hands beside his head. I came to a stop around ten feet from the quad bike, still aiming the handgun at the guy’s chest.

  “Hey, man, I ‘aint shooting, I’m just here as an observer,” the guy stammered in a dry, Southern accent. Black stubble surrounded the lower half of his face and around a sagging, double chin.

  I moved closer, still with my gun trained on the guy. I reached down and pulled the big revolver out from his holster.

  “Nice piece,” I said coldly, without even looking at the firearm. I tossed over my shoulder behind me. “You got any other weapons on you?”

  The guy gulped and shook his head. He was probably telling lies but I didn’t have time to go through every damn piece of his clothing.

  “Are you with those guys who came into our camp, took the girl and blew the place up? The Marshall is pretty pissed off with you guys,” he said. He looked up and shook his head slightly. “What happened to your face, man?” he asked. He almost sounded sincere.

  “Don’t worry your pretty little head about me, pal,” I snapped. “What’s your name, scumbag?”

  “Ducky,” the guy said. “I’m known as Ducky.”

  He spoke his name with touch of distaste, as though he didn’t really like it. I really didn’t give a shit or have time to go into details as to why he was named as such.

  “Well, Ducky, we’re going for a little ride back to your base camp,” I said, mounting the quad bike on the seat behind the guy. “Start this damn thing up and head for Lajitas. Oh, and if you try and pull any kind of stunts, I’ll blow your fucking spine out and feed you to the zombies.” I jammed the barrel of my handgun against the small of the guy’s back.

  Ducky winced and stiffened in his seat. He took a deep breath then pressed the red start button on the quad bike handle bars. The engine roared into life and rattled the whole frame. I leaned forward, gripped the hand rail at the back of the seat and ensured I kept the handgun firmly in place against the guy’s spine. I couldn’t allow him any slight opportunity to throw me off the damn machine.

  So, the big Texan guy was known as ‘The Marshall.’ I’d learned something new at least.

  Wafts of body odor attacked my nostrils as Ducky slowly turned the quad bike around in the road. I knew I probably didn’t smell much better but I had an excuse. I’d been out in the desert all night and most of the day being attacked and chased around like a hunted animal.

  Ducky opened the throttle up and I rocked back in the seat. I made damn sure I kept my gun in place and hoped the guy wasn’t going to try and lift the front wheels as he accelerated in an attempt to roll me off the back. Ducky didn’t try that maneuver though. He seemed a little scared, just how I wanted him to be.

  We tore along the road at a good speed. I just hoped I had the time to carry out my plan before the neo Nazis totally demolished the motel. Ducky slowed the quad bike as we rode by a pile of bodies littering the road beside the Ghost Town signpost. Chewed and severed limbs lay scattered in the sand and a few undead slithered around the side of the road. I glanced around but didn’t see anything of the wolf pack.

  “Jesus H Christ,” Ducky muttered. “What the fuck happened here?”

  “Keep going,” I growled in his ear.

  Ducky did as he was told. He skirted the quad bike around the flapping bodies and various parts of once human residue. The road remained clear ahead and Ducky opened up the throttle. The breeze felt cool and welcome as I sat on the back of the pulsing machine. I knew I couldn’t afford to relax though; I was on a mission not a jolly boy’s outing.

  The Ghost Town disappeared behind us and the desert scenery whizzed by as we continued on our trek. Doubt as to what I was doing threatened to creep into my thoughts but I pushed them away, trying to remain focused on what I was going to achieve.

  Ducky didn’t seem to panic or try anything audacious as we zoomed along the road. Maybe The Marshall didn’t wholly trust him as a combatant and that’s why he’d been on the fringes of the attack on the motel. Ducky did seem a little docile but that worked in my favor. Whether he was plotting something more sinister when we approached the gates guarding Lajitas remained to be seen but I was comfortable he was still compliant.

  The landscape became a little more familiar and I saw the tall, wire mesh fence in the distance. We were approaching Lajitas. The big, metal gates stood in the center of the road. I smelled the fire smoke from a distance and saw the scattered, light brown stone buildings on the opposite side of the fence.

  Ducky slowed the quad bike slightly as we rolled closer to the gates. I gulped hard, attempting to maintain my steely resolve.

  It was time to go to work. This was either sink without trace or swim across the fucking ocean.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Ducky turned the throttle onto low revs as we approached the gates, slowing the quad bike to a crawl. I was aware I had sand all over my face, sticking to the blood and sweat covering my head. That was no bad thing. I needed some kind of disguise in case any of the neo Nazis recognized me from the earlier skirmishes in the desert.

  “What do I say to the guards?” Ducky muttered. His voice sounded tense and apprehensive. “They’ll want to know why I’ve come back on my own without the rest of the crew.”

  I had to think and quickly. We were around fifty feet from the gates and any kind of hesitation to our approach would alert the border guards that something was wrong. I glanced up from behind Ducky’s back and saw a few guys lurching around on a tall, metal walkway, both sides and level with the top of the twenty feet high gates.

  Shit! I had to get this right or I was fucking toast.

  “Tell them I got injured during the attack,” I whispered. “Say I fell off the back of one of the trucks and we need some more gas for the vehicles out there.”

  “What?” Ducky muttered, in a high pitched tone.

  “Just repeat what I’ve fucking told you, Ducky or we’re both in deep shit,” I hissed.

  Ducky shuddered at my harsh words and I hoped he was going to carry out the instructions or I was in trouble. I hadn’t banked on him flaking out when we arrived at his camp. Docile he may have been but he seemed just as scared of the neo Nazis as I was. He rolled the quad bike a few feet from the gates before bringing us to a halt.

  I took a quick glance upward at the fortress beyond. Two guys leaned over the fence to our left and one guy stood his ground on the right side of the gates. They all held metallic black, pump action shotguns and dressed in dirty t-shirts and heavily stained denim jeans. The two guys on the left were stocky with shaved heads and the thin guy on the right had his black hair in a weird, man bun type hairdo and a long, wiry, crazy looking beard sprouted from the lower half of his face.

  “What the hell are you doing back here, Ducky?” Crazy Beard yelled out from over the fence. I noticed his arms were heavily tatt
ooed with swastika and KKK emblems. “Your fat ass is supposed to be out there in the field in support. What the hell is wrong with you?” The guy leaned over the fence, rolling his shotgun around his head and scowling at Ducky.

  I felt Ducky recoil slightly in the quad bike seat. I knew then that he was a bottom of the ladder kind of guy. Ducky was obviously the butt of plenty of jokes around the neo Nazi camp. All the more reason to try and get the guy on my side.

  The tension seemed to mount and I heard the two shaven headed guys rumbling to each other. Crazy Beard opened his eyes wide as though he was expecting some kind of answer from my quad bike driver. Ducky, it seemed, had clammed up. The edgy situation was obviously too much for him to cope with.

  I knew I had to intervene or we were likely to absorb a few hundred shot gun pellets very damn soon. I rubbed my hand against my face, wincing as fresh blood started to flow from my nose. I held the palm of my hand up to show the guys manning the gates the sight of fresh blood.

  “What’s this prick’s name?” I muttered behind Ducky’s back.

  To his credit, Ducky played along. He seemed to compose himself and looked up at the gates.

  “Hey, Red, don’t be so mean,” he called out. “Just open the damn gates, will you? Our man here fell off the back of one of the trucks and it looks as though his nose is all bust up. Could have lost a couple of teeth too. I just gave him a ride back, is all. The Marshall wants more gas out there in the boonies.”

  Ducky had excelled himself but the access through to Lajitas still seemed to be taking too long. I held my left hand over my nose and slightly over my mouth so my speech sounded muffled but also ensured I kept the handgun close to Ducky’s spine.

  “God damn it, Red, you ‘aint seen nothing like it out there, man,” I mumbled, trying to sound like a Southern boy. “Those drivers need some god damn lessons in rolling around the desert in a truck.” I tried to look and sound pissed off but I thought I was overcooking it. The Southern accent sounded anything but what it was supposed to.

  Crazy Beard scowled harder and leaned further over the fence.

  “What in the hell is that guy saying?” he barked.

  I jammed the gun barrel harder into Ducky’s back.

  “Ah, he’s just real pissed at those truck drivers, Red,” Ducky said. “His nose is all busted and he’s not a happy bunny. You know how those guys go hell for leather out there.”

  Crazy Beard or Red as I now knew he was called nodded in agreement. “Yes, I do. That no good, goofy cocksucker Perry Lynn fucked my leg good and proper.” He almost looked wistful. “Smashed us up all to pieces that night when we were driving around the desert. Too fond of his damn whiskey that one, may the Lord rest his soul.” Crazy Beard shook his head.

  “How many times we heard all this, Red?” one of the shaven headed guys groaned.

  “Hah! Fuck you,” Crazy Beard wailed, flapping his hand at his comrades. He shuffled along the walkway, closer to the side of the gates and I saw he walked with a pronounced limp. Maybe that’s why he wasn’t involved in the gunfight at the motel. His injury probably invalided him out of a dog shit army of pricks so he was left here to man the gates. A shit job for a shit headed guy. I had to keep my cool though and not let my revulsion of what these guys stood for cloud my actions. Not yet anyhow.

  “Just get down there and open the fucking gates,” Crazy Beard yelled at the two shaven headed guys, while thrusting his shotgun in their direction.

  The bearded gatekeeper was obviously riled with his two accomplices, which only put me in a stronger position. While they were all busting each other’s balls, it gave me more chance of going in and out of the camp undetected.

  The two shaven headed guys muttered protests but reluctantly complied. They clambered down an open metal staircase behind them and moved to each side of the gates. They unlocked and removed a thick padlock restraining the thick metal sliding bolt between the two gates. Then they pulled up some heavy looking bolts that were sunk into housings buried in the ground below the bottom of the gates. The two shaven headed guys winced as they pulled back the big, iron framed gates, opening up the threshold to Lajitas.

  Fucking bingo!

  I was in. So far so good.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Ducky accelerated and rolled the quad bike through the gateway to Lajitas. The part of town just beyond the gates looked in total chaos. It seemed to be more like a communal campsite rather than a town. Crudely erected tents and sagging tarpaulins, acting as make-shift shelters stood on both sides of the road and stretched further back to the buildings in the distance. Disheveled and dirty people milled around from one hovel to the next, their eyes were dull and they had the hunched, deflated stances of defeated people. They looked as though they were simply existing and had practically given up on life.

  “Who are all these people?” I asked Ducky, as we rode through the camp.

  “Ah, we call them the G’s,” Ducky answered.

  I didn’t understand. “What do you mean, man? The G’s?”

  “They’re refugees from anywhere. Somehow they found their way here,” Ducky explained. “The Marshall was good enough to take them inside the fence line but that’s as far as the hospitality goes, man. They basically have to fend for themselves. He says we ‘aint got the resources to keep them all fed and watered but I know different. I know we have really but he just wants to keep these people down. They maybe get a few extra scraps if they pull a day’s manual labor but that’s as far as it goes.”

  I glanced around the tents and watched the emaciated people move slowly around. They returned my gaze with haunted expressions. They’d lived through the horrors of the apocalypse and now they were basically starving to death.

  “Poor bastards,” I sighed.

  “Where are we heading?” Ducky asked. “Do you want to get to a first aid station to fix up your nose or do you really want to get some gas? They had to move the gas trucks last night. Your buddies broke in and caused a hell of a ruckus. There were explosions going off all over the damn place.”

  “I know,” I muttered. “I was right outside the fence when the shit went down.” I didn’t know why I told Ducky about my previous night’s maneuvers. I figured I’d gained his trust but because I’d just admitted to being around during last night’s shenanigans, he might now seek some kind of retribution. “Just take me to the gas trucks, Ducky,” I snapped.

  We continued on the road in silence. I glanced sideways and saw the buildings to my left that were only dark silhouettes the previous night. They looked like barns and storage units that could easily provide the refugees with a better quality of shelter than the ones they were forced to endure. The Marshall and the rest of his clan obviously didn’t give a shit about those desperate people. I watched the inhabitants stumble around their dilapidated dwellings and saw a few disheveled kids amongst the adults. Some of the youngsters scampered around in the sun while others sat and cried, their forlorn parents unable to comfort them.

  I had to turn away. The scene made my stomach churn.

  Ducky drove us towards the main part of Lajitas. It wasn’t quite a close knit town of close together structures. The old, rectangular shaped buildings were spread out across the landscape and a few new constructions had been built recently by the looks of the freshly stained and brown painted timber facades. A vast, level space stood to the right, which was jam packed with static trailers and RVs. I could see the long blacktop strip of the airport runway in the distance to the left. A row of lavish looking buildings lay further along the road up ahead. I guessed they belonged to the hotel resorts and golf club I’d seen on the map that Smith found.

  Ducky took a left turn down a narrower road and accelerated the quad bike slightly. He continued on for a couple of minutes before taking another left around the back of a low standing, silver sheet metal building with a light green roof. A line of huge white trucks coupled with tanker trailers were parked in a big, sandy lot at the rear of the build
ing.

  “These are the gas trucks,” Ducky said, turning his head slightly towards me. “They moved them here last night. They keep the keys in that lockup right there.” He nodded towards the silver building.

  Ducky decreased our speed as he rolled into the parking lot.

  “Okay, so we go in there and get the keys,” I snapped.

  “You might have a problem getting the keys from Sweaty Pete,” Ducky said.

  “Who the fuck is Sweaty Pete?” I growled.

  “He’s the guy who runs the lockup and maintains the trucks,” Ducky answered. “He keeps the keys and don’t like giving them out at the drop of a hat.”

  I felt a little deflated. I didn’t foresee a shit load of problems standing in my way.

  “I’ll have to have a quiet word with Sweaty Pete,” I said, trying to sound full of bravado.

  I saw a metal door standing open beside a big square window situated in the back wall of the building. “Park the quad up around the side,” I instructed, hoping there was no more windows in the shaded area on the right side of the lockup.

  Ducky did as he was told and brought the quad bike to a halt a few feet from the side of the building. He flicked a switch on the handle grip and the engine cut out immediately. I sat in silence for a couple of seconds just trying to get my head together and think how I was going to handle the situation with Sweaty Pete. I was deep in enemy territory and couldn’t afford anything to go wrong. I’d have to take Ducky with me to get the keys, which was an added problem to my growing list.

  “Okay, Ducky,” I said. “Let’s get off the bike. But take it real slow.”

  “You got it,” Ducky muttered.

  I slipped off the back of the seat, keeping my handgun trained on Ducky’s back as he side stepped off the machine. He took a quick glance over his shoulder at me, raised his hands and then slowly turned around to face me. I couldn’t allow him to look like a prisoner so I’d have to play the situation extremely carefully. Ducky seemed a little twitchy and nervous so I knew I’d have to try and calm him down or his expression would arouse suspicion.